


Prehistoric

by delires



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:18:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is like dinosaurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prehistoric

Hard back muscles roll beneath Kyle’s fingers. Their bodies are damp with sweat but these deltoids are firm enough to cling onto anyway. Football training will do that. It is a significant bonus. Kyle digs his knees in tighter and adds a bite to the next kiss, just to feel the way it makes the body between his thighs lurch

“No teeth,” Clyde says, still thrusting, “We said no marks.”

“Make it better, dude, and I won’t have to bite to get your attention.” Kyle runs his tongue over the teeth marks on Clyde’s throat and then groans as Clyde shoves forwards, pressing a little deeper.

“Good enough for you, honour roll?”

“Yeah,” Kyle pants, eyelids fluttering, “Yeah, that’s right.”

Sex with Clyde always goes this way. It’s kind of mutually shameful and frustrating, but ultimately the best available option. In a town this small and backwards, beggars can’t be choosers. Kyle isn’t under any delusions. Clyde is settling for him, just the same as he is settling for Clyde. They don’t look each other in the eye, they don’t touch outside of Clyde’s bedroom and they certainly don’t make love.

As far as Kyle is concerned, love is like dinosaurs - extinct everywhere but in the movies.

After they’re done, he collects his clothes from around the room while Clyde stands naked in the mess, scratching his stomach and scrolling through messages on his iPhone. He is standing on the leg of Kyle’s jeans, so Kyle kicks him in the calf to get him to move.

Without looking up from his phone, Clyde says, “That was good, babe. We’ll do it again some time.”

Kyle squirms into his jeans and digs his own phone out of his pocket. “Dude, what have I said about you talking to me after?”

“Don’t do it?”

“Yeah.”

The message from Clyde about meeting here is still the last on Kyle’s phone, but a new one appears as he is about to put the phone away. Still naked, Clyde heads for the en suite bathroom, smacking Kyle on the ass as he passes. “Catch you later, then. Facebook me or whatever.”

Normally Kyle would tell him off for this, but he is distracted by the message from Kenny.

_Bitch, you’re late. I’m covering you right now, but Cartman’s gonna open up a big old can of whup ass if you’re not here soon._

“Shit,” he says, as the shower turns on and Clyde starts singing ‘Simply The Best’, complete with drum effects.

Kyle grabs the rest of his stuff and is out on the street in under a minute, still fighting his arms into the sleeves of his parka, swapping his phone from hand to hand as he waits for the call to connect. A glove dangles between his teeth by one finger. He finally manages to jam his feet completely into his boots just as Kenny answers the phone.

“Yo, Kosher. Where you at?”

Kyle spits out the glove. “I’m not on rota today.”

Kenny clicks his tongue. “Rota begs to differ. She’s in my hand and telling me you’re on three til nine.”

“Fuck. I guess I screwed up my days.” Kyle’s other glove isn’t in his pocket. He turns to look for it in the snow behind, but it isn’t there either. He must have left it in Clyde’s room all mixed up in the jerk-off tissues and sweaty gym clothes.

“Cartman’s about ready to throw someone in the deep fry,” Kenny says. “I told him you’re having emergency dental work. You should maybe drool a bit when you get here.”

“I’m so sorry, dude.”

“No big. You’ve covered for me a thousand times.”

“Seriously. I’m like running there right now.”

“Where are you?”

“Westfield Drive.”

“What the fuck are you doing out there?”

Kyle thinks about the flex of Cyde’s thrusting ass muscles and then squeezes his eyes shut so hard that it kind of hurts. “I had to pick something up for my Mom,” he lies, nearly losing his footing on the ice, grabbing a nearby mailbox to stay upright, “A thing for her book club.”

He is pretty much the world’s most awful liar and Kenny can usually sniff this shit out in an instant, but there’s a clatter over the line and then all in a rush Kenny goes, “Dude, I have to go. Cartman just walked in the office. Peace out.”

Three high-pitched bleeps let Kyle know the call has been ended. He quits hugging the mailbox, slides his phone back into his pocket and heads south, towards the diner.

In this town there are exactly two places to work if you’re still in school. One is the elderly care home. The other is Squinty’s diner, home of the longest mozzarella sticks in Colorado. It is also home to Squinty’s Gut Muncher Challenge, which only five people have ever managed to complete without puking where they sat. Being on shift during a Muncher is super lame. Kyle has literally had to throw the shoes and socks he was wearing directly into the trash after a challenger barfed all over his feet while Kyle was helping him to the restroom. Cartman had to drive his barefooted ass home that night. He laughed the whole way while Kyle cursed and cursed, struggling to fit his naked toes into a spare pair of gloves.

Cartman is one of the few people to have actually beaten the Gut Muncher. This is not surprising, seeing as it is practically a normal sized meal for him. He got made supervisor right after, which is how reward structures operate in a workplace like Squinty’s. Kenny is a supervisor too, but he only got his promotion after he narrowly avoided being impaled on the custom-made mozzarella stick slicer and threatened to sue Mr. Squinty for damages. Since Kyle is not able to eat twice his own weight in saturated fat and has yet to have a near-death experience on the premises, he’s stuck on the bottom rung along with Wendy and Bebe, which would be a whole lot worse if Kyle actually gave a shit about working at Squinty’s.

Thank fuck he has the promise of college to set him free at the end of the year.

It is after four by the time Kyle is pulling open the diner’s jangling door. Wendy is just getting through taking an order. She tucks her notepad into the pocket of her apron and slips behind the counter after him.

“I thought Cartman was going to have an aneurysm,” she says, as she starts putting her coffee tray together. “He nearly put an industrial stapler through the office wall. There’s a dent where it bounced off.”

Kyle throws a clean apron around his waist. “I’m here now.”

Kenny has clearly been waiting Kyle’s section for the past hour. The order notes are all written in his loose block capitals. They don’t have a uniform here, just matching aprons and a name badge with little gold stars to indicate their success at meeting the employee excellence targets. Wendy has five gold stars beneath her name. Kyle has none. Cartman took them all away last week after Kyle refused to stop referring to Top Gun as ‘homoeroticism on wings.’

He clips his name badge on and looks up to find Wendy watching him, the coffee tray already balanced across one arm. Her hair is pulled back, but a few strands hang around her face. She licks her lips before she speaks.

“Don’t give Cartman an excuse to fire you. Please, dude. I need you here to keep me sane. Where the hell would I be in this place without you to talk to?”

“You have Bebe.”

Wendy snorts. “Oh, sure. When she’s not out back macking on Kenny.”

Ever since Stan left the state last spring, when his parents finally managed a divorce that stuck, Kyle and Wendy have been extra tight. Sometimes it feels as though she is his last true ally in this stupid mess which passes for a life.

Before Kyle can reply, Craig is suddenly leaning over the counter in front of him and groping amongst the spare condiments.

“Do not tell me we are out of fucking red,” Craig says. He can’t see what he’s feeling and knocks a bottle of mustard over, sending it rolling. Kyle steps forwards and hands him the ketchup. “Thanks,” Craig says, and then grins at Kyle. “Cartman made an effigy of you. Out of cheese. It’s on the notice board.”

“Great.”

“Good likeness. Got a drawing pin through its balls, though.” Still leaning over the counter, Craig punches Kyle in the arm, before he takes his ketchup and goes.

Craig is the newest member of the Squinty’s family, though technically he’s still a trainee, because he refuses to come in out of hours to complete his health and safety credentials. Until a few months ago, he was taking advantage of the third possible employment option available to kids like them in this town: family business. But that was before he had a colossal fight with his Dad, then put a brick through the windshield of the company vehicle in retribution, which left him not only with no job but also with a big-ass repairs bill to pay.

Craig has no stars either. He agrees with Kyle about Top Gun.

“You see?” Wendy says, “This is the shit that goes down when you aren’t here. Cheese fucking effigies, Kyle. God help us both.” Wendy hoists her tray a little higher and rights the fallen bottle of mustard on her way back out to tables. As she walks past she leans towards him and adds, “By the way, get him to shave first next time. You have really obvious stubble burn on your lips right now.”

Kyle scowls and touches them, feeling the sting. “They’re chapped from the cold,” he calls after her.

She turns around and throws him the chapstick that she keeps in her apron pocket. “I hear you,” she says. “That cold is so inconsiderate.”

The chapstick is cherry-flavoured and a little gooey from the heat of the kitchen. Kyle puts some on anyway before patting down his pockets for a pen. There is the sound of a throat being cleared and he turns to find Cartman standing in the doorway to the office, holding up the pen he is looking for.

“This is why there are no stars left on that badge of yours. Squinty only gives stars to employees who give a crap about turning up for work on time. Now, let me think here, Kyle, does this apply to you?” Cartman frowns and scratches his chin as though making a supreme mental effort. “Does it apply to you?”

“I’m sorry I was late,” Kyle says. He reaches for the pen, but Cartman jerks it away.

“I just want to help you to be a good Squinty’s team player, Kyle. Why must you fight me every step of the way?”

“I’ll stay longer to make up the time, okay?”

Cartman jerks his head towards the notice board, where a lumpy figure is pinned next to the fire escape plan. It has a big scrap of lint on top of its yellow head, presumably to represent Kyle’s curly hair. “Did you see my doll?”

“It’s a feat of artistic brilliance,” Kyle says flatly.

“I knew you’d appreciate it. Now, hand over that lipstick and go do some motherfucking work before I start shoving pins in the real thing. Okay? Cool, thanks, Kyle.”

Cartman’s grin is far too wide, so Kyle swaps Wendy’s chapstick for the pen and does as he’s told, picking up where Kenny’s notes leave off with the orders. Without Stan around to back him up, going head to head with Cartman is to be saved for the times when he doesn’t already know that he’s completely in the wrong. Instead of starting a fight he swings a tray of appetisers up onto his shoulder and goes to introduce himself to the people sitting in his section, who will be expected to tip for the non-service he’s been providing for the past hour.

He has barely set the dishes safely down on the table when Kenny appears beside him, grabs his arm and drags him towards the windows at the far end of the diner, saying, “You gotta take a look at this.”

Kyle dumps his tray on an empty table. “Dude, Cartman is already about to eat me alive.”

“I’m the one who’s been covering your ass for the past five hundred years, remember? I just need you real quick.” Kenny stops beside the windows and puts his hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “I smoked a lot of weed at the weekend and I hear tell that shit brings on hallucinating. So I want you to tell me honest.” He uses his finger to pull the spokes of the blind apart, so that Kyle can peer through. “Is that or is that not Stanley fucking Marsh standing in the parking lot?”

 

It is freezing bright outside. Sunshine and gritting salt have turned the ice to slush. It splashes up against Kyle’s jeans. He pulls his Squinty’s apron off and tosses it over his shoulder into the sludgy mess.

Stan meets him halfway. “Hi,” he starts, “I’m sorry I didn’t...”

But Kyle doesn’t care what he has to say, especially not once they have their arms around each other and all the cold seems to have melted out of the air. He puts his face to Stan’s neck and inhales the scent of him, which is exactly the same as it has been since they were children, since their first kiss, since the night they stupidly agreed long distance would be impossible.

Love is like dinosaurs, Kyle thinks. For something to become extinct, it must first have been alive.

They stand there in the parking lot, surrounded by the debris of shitty small town life, and hold onto one another. 

After all, wonders can be worked with particles preserved in amber.


End file.
